


Ichor

by Bookworm101103



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst and Feels, Child Abandonment, Elder God, Eldritch, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gardens & Gardening, Healing, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Kings & Queens, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Mommy Issues, Pomegranates, Slight Dissociation, Tevis is my son and I'm so sorry to put him through this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 15:27:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30108045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookworm101103/pseuds/Bookworm101103
Summary: “Which comes first, character or story? There is no such thing as first because a person is what happens to them. So a novel is characters interacting with events. Characters don’t just exist in isolation. You’re finding out who they are through how they interact, through the decisions they make, through how other people treat them, through how they react to how other people treat them. All of these interactions that change us, that reveal us to ourselves, that reveal us to other people, and therefore to the reader.”





	Ichor

**Author's Note:**

> So this piece is actually a minor expansion of one of my drabbles, The Beast, which is why the beginning is super similar since I was building off of it. I loved it so very much, and I wanted to expand on it, so here we are! I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> P.S. the quote is from Margaret Atwood

He knows, long before he sees it, that the garden beds have long ago withered and died from lack of care. They need new soil, and he knows right away he's going to need wood ashes if he expects to grow anything in the garden's natural soil.

He supposes he can use the ash from a fireplace in the royal quarters if he can find a maid to ask. A maid who will talk to him, instead of looking at her shoes and bobbing up and down uselessly before scurrying away in fear.

Of Rhoam, the king, he wonders idly, or of him?

He fiddles with the ring on his finger. It still bothers him a bit to wear it, as does the circlet of gold and jewels nestled awkwardly between his antlers.

Vegetables, he decides firmly, for the more protected beds in the sheltered area, aloe, dogwood, and angelica scattered in-between. The great big one in the centre though, that'll be a bit trickier. Some hardy things like fennel and thyme and mint would be more practical.

And for the bed that circles the far wall, some ivy, or hedges or both. If he's careful, he could start a few trees here once he gets the soil a bit more matured and steadier.

An apple tree. 

He likes the ideas of a few flowers as well. Mother had kept huge bushes of hydrangeas scattered around Raconteur Castle, and he remembers her singing to them when he was first spilt, weaving magic into the blooms. Even after she had left, he had strived to support them with his magic, fertilizing them with blood and bone and watering them with screams of despair.

But he does like this plan, so far. A garden needs to be planned and planned carefully. _Sugar-snap peas,_ he decides, in the bed by the wall, and imagines them climbing up it, getting to eat one fresh off the vine, sharp teeth puncturing the green skin like flesh.

He’s not sure if the garden, as hidden and forgotten as it is, is Rhoam’s way of apologizing for forcing him to come to the mountain, or his way of _thanking_ him for leaving, but the peace and quiet is a treat not often had, not with pressing issues such as the proper dress for dinner to the correct and very different ways to address the head of the Blacksmith’s Guild and the head of the Alchemist's Guild.

Regardless, it’s going to be beautiful come the summer.

It’s a shame he won’t ever get the chance to see it.

It makes his form warble at the edges, to think of home. It may only be for the fall and winter, but he still feels the crushing guilt for breaking his promise to stay. He’s never once left the castle grounds in thousands of years, even on the days where he felt hollow and numb, wandering through the endless hallowed halls. It had hidden no secrets, had borne no great truths, nor held any answers. It was just a place outside of time. The most that it could boast is a reflection of another universe beyond its border, no creatures, or people to claim as its own. 

No past, no future, but an infinite present.

“Need a minute?”

He turns towards the terrace doors, startled. He didn't hear him enter the terrace, but King Rhoam Aïdes Steele, First of His Name, Uniter of the Great Lands of Salveria and Indora, The Infernal Lightning and Wealth – Giver hovers in the doorway like a lost puppy with a soft smile on his face and worry in his eyes.

“No!” Tevis answers quickly, attempting to pull his inky form back into comprehensible shape. “No, come in.”

Rhoam looks about Tevis's garden, making a show of admiring the empty space, while Tevis gets himself together, sitting down and fiddling with his ring in an attempt to ground himself. It's kind of him, and by the time he reaches Tevis again, he feels a bit calmer.

“What do you think of pomegranates?” he asks, eager to avoid questions the burning questions he can see building in Rhoam’s throat.

“I like them sometimes.” Rhoam shrugs. “Are you planning on growing pomegranates?”

“Of course. A garden like this wouldn’t be right without them.” Tevis teases just a bit, “Like a king without a crown,”, and Rhoam must be in good humour today because he smiles at the silly joke in a way that makes him feel like a small animal is beating itself to death inside his ribcage.

“You want help?”

Tevis scoffs lightly. “I'm sure I can manage. Plants are my specialty you know.”

He gets a deep laugh out of Rhoam at that, and he finally settles next to Tevis, relaxing at last. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, or so say the tales, and Tevis has seen how true it is in his interactions with Rhoam, how he tosses and turns at night, thinking of all he must accomplish in the day, all he has failed at. He is a good king, from what Tevis can see, or at least tries to be.

“Have you ever actually tried gardening, Rhoam?” he asks suddenly.

“No, I have not.”

“Would you like to?”

It turns out he really isn't very good at it, but no one ever is at first. Rhoam's knees are dirty, and his crown is discarded on the ground, but he listens patiently as Tevis shows him how to mulch and till each bed according to different needs. What he lacks in natural ability, he makes up in determination, frowning at the weeds stubbornly. Rhoam even sows a few seeds as they work, morning glory and moonflower already sprouting with little white roots poking out, ready for the ground.

In the comfortable silence as they work, they brush against each other, always inexplicably drawn back together. Everything else is just periphery to this, even the suffocating feeling that tries to claw its way through his soul every time he thinks of his Mother’s home.

Somehow, here, in this little space between time and mortal memory, surrounded by a silent promise of the future, he is more than just the devouring Beast of the Eldin, forever Kore, destined to be forgotten.

Here, he is merely Tevis, patient, watchful and _loved_. 


End file.
